


After The Wedding

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: All the Holmes Brothers Angst, Angst, Brother/Brother Incest, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8802463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Mycroft checks in on Sherlock's well-being several weeks after John and Mary's wedding. 
(Story is set between the events of The Sign of Three and His Last Vow.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daasgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/gifts).



> While “The Abominable Bride” has influenced this story, much of it was written, at least, a year before that episode's airdate. Any revelations about Sherlock and Mycroft's past relationship within that story are not applicable here, i.e.: such as the list of drugs Sherlock would give to Mycroft, which was not mentioned specifically in the canon of the show until “The Abominable Bride.”
> 
> Beta'd and brit-picked by the brilliant daasgrrl. Thank you so much, my dear. 
> 
> Any other mistakes are clearly my own.

Sherlock passes several bills to the cabbie, thanking him for the ride home. He lifts his collar to protect himself slightly from the rain pissing down onto the dark sidewalk before climbing out of the cab. When he looks up, he finds his brother Mycroft shielding himself from the rain, his ubiquitous umbrella in one hand and a low tar cigarette smouldering in the other.

 

"Mycroft? What are you doing here?" Sherlock groans.

 

"Did you enjoy the wedding?" Mycroft drawls as he breathes in another puff from his cigarette.

 

Sherlock's body stiffens. "Yes. And why are you asking me this now? It was weeks ago."

 

"Seemed a good time as any. Keeping busy, I expect?"

 

"Quite," Sherlock affirms through gritted teeth. His eyes focus on the glowing end of Mycroft's cigarette, which sends shadows across his brother's face each time he takes it to his delicate lips. Sherlock sighs in defeat and gestures towards the door.

 

"Care to come up?"

 

"Yes. Thank you." Mycroft grins as he flicks the remains of the cigarette onto the soaked pavement. He quickly draws his umbrella shut, shakes off the excess rain and opens the door, stepping into the building's corridor. He gingerly climbs the stairs, his expensive shoes treading lightly on each step. Sherlock lags behind him, silently mirroring his brother's ascension towards his flat.

 

Mycroft twists the doorknob and pushes open the door as he crosses the threshold in one swift motion. He stands stock still at the sight before him. Books and assorted rubbish strewn across any reasonable sitting surface. Remnants of Sherlock's wedding suit thrown haphazardly over the chair previously occupied by John Watson.

 

“I love what you've done with the place,” Mycroft drawls.

 

Sherlock steps around him and into the centre of the room, looking around thoughtfully. “Well, I thought I could do with a change of scenery. Try something new. Redecorate the place. Spruce it up a bit.”

 

“I see.”

 

“What, Mycroft?” Sherlock huffs impatiently.

 

“Nothing. I suppose it's to be expected after such a transition.”

 

“Transition? I'm rearranging my flat. What _transition_ could I possibly be going through?”

 

“John moving out. The wedding. John and Mary. It's all quite real now, isn't it, brother mine?”

 

“Why does everyone think this is such a significant moment in my life? I've lived alone before and I'll do it again. Nothing's changed.”

 

“Of course it hasn't.” Mycroft smiles.

 

“You don't believe me? Fine. How's this for change?” Sherlock blurts as he stalks towards John's chair. He tosses his suit onto the floor, bends at the knees slips his forearms underneath the arms of the chair, and starts to hoist it into the air.

 

“Sherlock. Don't be so dramatic. It's unnecessary and unbecoming of you. Put the chair down. There's no need for such theatrics, especially without a captive audience. It doesn't benefit either of us, hmm?”

 

Sherlock drops the chair onto the floor with a thud and stands up to his full height. He briefly avoids eye contact, head hanging low, chin pressed against his chest.

 

Mycroft gingerly places his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, drawing his gaze up towards him. Sherlock’s eyes are rimmed with reddened circles, tears brimming at the edges.

 

“Oh, Sherlock. I did warn you about this, getting involved. You'll only get hurt in the end.”

 

“Oh, all that 'caring is not an advantage' bollocks. Perhaps you should heed your own advice, _brother mine_ ,” Sherlock spits out angrily.

 

Mycroft's eyes narrow. “Right. Well, I'll leave you to your _redecorating_ ,” Mycroft quips as he tightly grips his umbrella and turns towards the door to leave.

 

“Wait,” Sherlock urges, stopping Mycroft. His hand brushes Mycroft's wrist, drawing him back towards him.

 

Sherlock's eyes peer pleadingly into Mycroft's. Mycroft hasn't seen such a desperate look in his brother's eyes since the day Redbeard was put to rest. It's a look he's been unable to resist even into adulthood.

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft starts, before being cut off by Sherlock taking his face into his large hands and planting an eager kiss onto his lips.

 

Mycroft pulls away pupils dilated and breath slightly exasperated. “What the hell are you doing? Besides, I'm not the one you want.”

 

“Oh, just shut up and kiss me,” Sherlock retorts, bending back towards Mycroft.

 

Mycroft tears himself away from Sherlock's grip. “Sherlock, this is serious. I am not a substitute for John. I will not accept being a replacement for him. I am no one's second choice.”

 

“You're not replacing John. No one could replace him.” Sherlock presses a gentle hand on Mycroft's cheek. “You were always my first choice. I didn't know you were an option in the first place.”

 

“Sherlock. I'm not a mark you can manipulate into giving you what you want. Stop this at once.”

 

“You think this is a game? You're so much more than that to me. Kiss me, Mycroft, and tell me if I'm playing with you.”

 

“Are you daring me to kiss you? How droll. I thought you were trying to prove to me that this was no game. I'm going to need something a bit more convincing than some silly dare.”

 

“What am I to do, then? Get on my knees and beg you?”

 

“It would be an excellent start.”

 

“You can't be serious.”

 

“Deadly,” Mycroft breathes in a low, husky voice.

 

Sherlock scowls as he slowly kneels on the carpeted floor. He mockingly presses his palms together and raises them high enough for Mycroft to see.

 

“Happy?”

 

“Immensely.”

 

Sherlock starts to climb up off the floor when a firm hand on his shoulder holds him down.

 

“Where are you going? I don't recall hearing you beg.”

 

Sherlock places his palms together once again, raising them up for Mycroft's perusal.

 

“What did you think this was for?” Sherlock remarks, nodding his head toward his closed palms.

 

“Brother mine, it was an excellent beginning, but the ending left much to be desired.”

 

“If I had my way, you would have already desired _my end_ ,” Sherlock mutters under his breath.

 

“Sherlock, really! Must you resort to such cheap vulgarity?”

 

“If it grabs your attention, then yes. Yes, I do.”

 

“Oh, is that what you're hoping to grab, my _attention_?”

 

“Amongst other things,” Sherlock purrs, as he runs his fingers along the front of Mycroft's trousers.

 

“Sherlock, what has got into you?” Mycroft exclaims as he jerks away from Sherlock's lingering touch. He wraps his hand around Sherlock's wrist, tugging roughly at his brother's shirtsleeve. “Are you using again?” Mycroft asks.

 

“No!” Sherlock yells as he rips his arm away from Mycroft's grip. “No,” he repeats firmly, eyes glaring upwards into Mycroft's worried ones.

 

“All right,” Mycroft says apologetically as he runs his hands down the front of his suit, tugging at the hem of his jacket in order to straighten it. “I just... Well, let's not concern ourselves with that now.” Mycroft flicks the tip of his umbrella towards Sherlock's knees and glances knowingly down at him.

 

“Fine,” Sherlock breathes in contempt. “Mycroft, _stay_. Don't _go_ ,” Sherlock begs flatly.

 

“ _Of course_ , Sherlock. If you _insist_.” Mycroft smirks as he sidesteps around Sherlock. Leaning his umbrella against the side of John's chair, he grabs the arms of it before gracefully falling backwards into it.

 

Sherlock climbs up off the floor and petulantly flops into his own chair, his eyes absentmindedly following the umbrella handle swinging back and forth in Mycroft's hand.

 

“So, Sherlock, besides working on your well-thought-out home improvement projects, how else have you been occupying your precious time?”

 

“Experimenting with various types of... Hold on. You don't want to hear about this. Why are you asking me personal questions?”

 

“Thought I'd give it a bash. I realise I've made an egregious error. Won't try it again.”

 

“No. I'd say not.” Sherlock pauses briefly before pondering, “What is wrong with us, you think?”

 

“Sherlock, not this again. We're not like them. They all care too much. Neither of us have the luxury of such base, simple emotions. They get in the way of our work. People's lives are at risk. Caring won't save them, will it?”

 

“Mycroft, is it really enough for you? Not caring? What if we're wrong?”

 

“Sherlock, I...” Mycroft pauses, suddenly speechless. His grey eyes gaze in confusion into Sherlock's.

 

Before Mycroft can utter another word, Sherlock leans forward in his chair and cups his brother's left cheek warmly. Mycroft's eyelids flutter as he slowly begins to take stock of what's happening.

 

“Sherlock, are you sure?” Mycroft asks with concern.

 

Sherlock nods, bringing himself mere inches away from his brother's face.

 

“Once we do this, it will never be the same between us.”

 

“I don't care.”

 

“Sherlock...”

 

“I. Don't. Care.” Sherlock punctuates each word with a delicate kiss on Mycroft's cheeks. His lips press firmly against Mycroft's mouth, eagerly anticipating his brother's response.

 

Mycroft stiffens uncomfortably under his brother's touch. He never thought he would know what his brother's pillowy lips felt like against his own.

 

“Wait. Just, _wait_ ,” Mycroft rips himself away from Sherlock's grip, breathing raggedly as he falls back against the chair.

 

Sherlock draws himself closer, practically crawling into his brother's lap as he states plaintively, “I believe we've waited long enough, don't you?”

 

“Yes. Yes, we have,” Mycroft breathes as he tentatively raises his hand in the air and gingerly caresses Sherlock's plush bottom lip with his thumb. His grey eyes scan every inch of his brother's face until finally settling on Sherlock's blue-green eyes, staring into his in anticipation.

 

Mycroft delicately glides his dexterous fingers across his brother's jawline, tracing soft lines along them. Part of him can’t believe this is happening: his baby brother sitting atop him, eagerly waiting for further instruction.

 

Mycroft's mind races with so many delicious and debauched fantasies he's had over the years, all of them involving Sherlock willingly and wantonly participating in each and every request put before him. But those were only fantasies. Having his brother's lithe form so close to him is an unmistakable reality and, perhaps, a once in a lifetime moment he knows he shouldn't take for granted.

 

Mycroft tenderly runs his long fingers through his brother's soft curls. His perfectly manicured nails lightly scratch along Sherlock's sensitive scalp as he gathers a handful of those luscious curls in his fist, playfully tugging them.

 

“Have a care, Mycroft. I believe you remember how a simple hair pulling could make me susceptible to completing even the most menial of tasks you would put before me.”

 

“I do very much, Sherlock. Fondly, in fact.” Mycroft smirks as he jerks at the hair tightly wound within his grip, causing Sherlock to keen and buck on Mycroft's lap. “I don't think I realised then how I could use such a devious tactic to my advantage in the future. Especially with you practically begging for me to do so now.”

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock breathes.

 

“Yes, brother mine?”

 

“Please?” Sherlock whines softly.

 

“Use your words. Tell me what you want.”

 

“You. I want you.”

 

“Very well, then,” Mycroft coos as he leans upwards and claims Sherlock's soft lips with his own.

 

It's nothing like the taunting kiss Sherlock had laid upon him moments ago. While that kiss had felt as though it were luring Mycroft into giving in to his most base desires, this one feels as real and honest as he’d hoped it could be between them. All of the frustration, the sniping, and their long-standing sibling rivalry forgotten in one sweet, tender kiss.

 

Sherlock quickly wraps his arms around the back of Mycroft's neck, drawing him closer as he skillfully slides his tongue between his older brother's lips.

 

Instead of pulling away from Sherlock's bold gesture, Mycroft eagerly massages his own tongue along Sherlock's, drawing deep, breathy moans from his brother's throat.

 

Sherlock grinds down on his brother's clothed erection as he rhythmically rocks his hips in wanton, desperate need. Mycroft ardently meets his brother's movements, rolling his hips upwards towards him and feeling the now obviously hard cock in his brother's trousers rubbing along his own.

 

Mycroft gently tugs at the handful of curls still gripped in his hand, causing Sherlock to gasp suddenly and release his mouth from Mycroft's.

 

Sherlock stares down at his older brother as he exclaims in slight annoyance, “What was that for? Weren't you enjoying it?”

 

“Oh, Sherlock. I was _definitely_ enjoying it. A bit too much, in fact. Didn't want to end it too soon. Would you?”

 

“No. Of course not.” Sherlock sighs.

 

“Excellent,” Mycroft oils as he glides his free hand between their bodies and starts unbuttoning his trousers.

 

Sherlock bats Mycroft's hand away as he quickly drags down his brother's zipper and then begins to pull down his own.

 

“Impatient, are we?” Mycroft smirks as he carefully tucks his thumb underneath the waistband of his pants and lifts them up over his hard cock. It bobs obscenely in his lap, drawing Sherlock's eyes downwards. 

 

“Yes. Very. Want you now. _Need_ you now,” Sherlock pants, as he reaches into his own underwear, revealing his own achingly stiff erection. “Lubricant?”

 

Mycroft raises a questioning eyebrow before he sarcastically pats his empty suit jacket pockets. “No. None here. Besides, what made you think I would have some at the ready?”

 

“I don't know. You always seem prepared for any situation.”

 

“But lubricant?” Mycroft chortles. “Do you really think it's something I'd need naturally on a regular basis? 'Hmm. I'm going to visit my brother today. Don't want to forget the _lubricant_!' Honestly, Sherlock! You're more likely to have some lying around the flat. Why don't you have any?”

 

“Why would _I_ have any?” Sherlock stutters, clearly embarrassed by Mycroft's question.

 

“Perhaps for one of your experiments? Why else would you have any?”

 

“Right. Of course,” Sherlock asserts in relief. 

 

“Well, _do_ you have any?” Mycroft wonders.

 

“Unfortunately, no.” Sherlock sighs in defeat.

 

Mycroft then laves his tongue along his own palm, wetting it slightly before wrapping his long, dexterous fingers around Sherlock's cock and tenderly stroking it.

 

“Well, I suppose we cou... Oh!” Sherlock exclaims in surprise.

 

“Thought I'd improvise. Good?” Mycroft smirks.

 

“Yeah. Really good,” Sherlock moans softly as his brother's hand expertly rubs up and down his shaft.

 

“Brother mine, mind giving me a hand?” Mycroft drawls sweetly as he glances down at his neglected erection.

 

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” Sherlock stumbles as he slides his hand down between their bodies and tentatively grips Mycroft's cock in his fist. Letting his blatant inexperience and enthusiasm get the best of him, he begins to rapidly wank Mycroft off.

 

“Sherlock! Slowly, slowly,” Mycroft groans.

 

“I've never done this with another person,” Sherlock admits as he pumps Mycroft's cock with considerably less fervour. “Better?”

 

“Yes. Much,” Mycroft sighs contentedly.

 

Sherlock inches closer to Mycroft, eagerly bucking his hips upwards and hoping to gain further friction in Mycroft's tight fist.

 

“Still so impatient, brother mine?”

 

“Yes, very. Feels too good and it's taking far too long. Need to come now.”

 

“All right, if you insist. Move closer, then,” Mycroft huffs breathlessly as he encourages Sherlock to plant his rump onto Mycroft’s thighs, bringing their cocks flush against one another. Sherlock licks his lips in anticipation as he watches Mycroft take both of their cocks into his hands.

 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Sherlock exclaims through gritted teeth as Mycroft's soft, dexterous hands vigorously work up and down both of their shafts in perfect synchronicity.

 

Sherlock's eyes bore into Mycroft's as he leans forward, pressing his sweat-strewn forehead against his older brother's.

 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock whines desperately as he writhes in Mycroft's lap, begging for release.

 

“Come for me, Sherlock. Go on. Come for _me_ ,” Mycroft orders in a low voice.

 

Sherlock needs no further prompting. He throws his head back and bellows out a deep, guttural groan from his throat as he spills thickly over Mycroft's hands, his teeth clamping into his plump bottom lip as he rides out the aftershocks of his orgasm.

 

“Beautiful.” Mycroft leers admiringly as he watches Sherlock quiver in ecstasy above him.

 

Mycroft’s hands continue to tenaciously work themselves along their shafts, feeling his own orgasm building up inside of him. Unable to hold out any longer, he screws his eyes shut as he lets out a soft, mewling moan from his thin lips and comes over his hands, joining Sherlock's release, which has already began to dry against them.

 

Mycroft sinks back into the chair, his heart beating fast in his chest as he allows the last shiver of his orgasm to vibrate along his thighs. A soft press of lips against his own causes him to slowly creak his eyes open and stare at the man kissing him. He immediately shoots up in his seat as regret at what has transpired between the two of them begins to wash over him in dizzying waves. Sherlock scrambles to grab the back of the chair as he tries to regain his position on his brother's lap before unceremoniously tumbling onto the floor.    

 

“What the hell, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks, his eyes wandering wildly to read the worried expression on his brother's face.

 

Mycroft has so many things he wants to, _needs_ to say in the moment. How much he loves his younger brother, and how he wishes it could be like this always. But Mycroft knows that while this is above and beyond everything he has ever imagined happening between them, it cannot and should not ever happen again. Sherlock is his responsibility, and, despite his own feelings on the matter, he’s crossed a line today that should have never been crossed in the first place.

 

Instead of making any of these feelings known to the one person he cares for most in the world, he barks gruffly, “I have to _leave_. Get up, Sherlock.”

 

“Wait, what? To go where? What are you talking about?” Sherlock asks in a daze as his hands tenderly reach out towards Mycroft's reddened cheeks.

 

Mycroft's hands quickly wrap around his brother's slim wrists, stopping Sherlock mere inches from touching his face. “Well, I can't exactly loiter around all day here, can I? Thank you for the hospitality, Sherlock, but I must be on my way,” Mycroft states dryly as he releases Sherlock's hands and digs into his coat pocket for his handkerchief, wiping away the last remains of their coupling and righting himself into his trousers.

 

“Hospitality?” Sherlock huffs in shock. His eyes cast downwards in disbelief as the weight of his brother's sudden indifference rush through him like a thunderbolt.

 

“Right. Well, far be it from me to stop you,” Sherlock spits as he draws himself upwards and out of Mycroft's lap, and hurriedly adjusts himself back into his trousers with as much dignity as he can muster.

 

“Excuse me,” Mycroft says as he leaps out of his seat, brushing past an indignant Sherlock before striding towards the bathroom and shutting the door sharply behind him.

 

Mycroft gently turns the handles on the sink. His hand lingers on the knob as hot water flows freely from the tap. His eyes fixate on the water pooling around the drain before it slides down into the pipes below it. Hot steam ghosts around the end of the faucet as the temperature rises steadily higher. He releases his grip on the handle and places one hand underneath the liquid soap bottle nozzle, and with the other pushes downwards as he fills his open palm with fragrant white foam.

 

He meticulously lathers and scrubs his hands, linking his long fingers together to thoroughly rub the soap between them. He repeats the process three more times until he is sufficiently satisfied they're clear of any bodily fluids. He then thrusts his soapy hands into the waterfall of scalding hot water, wincing sharply as the heat seems to melt away his tender flesh.

 

After a final rinse, Mycroft withdraws his pulsating red hands and carefully twists the knobs to stop the flow of molten clear liquid from circling the sink drain. He grabs a flannel from the towel bar and gently dries off his hands before returning it to its rightful place.

 

He takes one final look into the bathroom mirror, adjusting the knot on his tie, and refastens his suit jacket.

 

_Clearly this suit will need to be dry cleaned_ , he thinks to himself absentmindedly before he takes in a deep, wanting breath and wrenches open the bathroom door.

 

The familiar sound of a violin echoes down the hallway as he strolls back into the sitting area to find Sherlock in his usual spot.

 

“The chair is ruined. It's entirely unfit for future use. It must go. Perhaps I'll take it around the back and burn it,” Sherlock blurts out petulantly, purposefully avoiding his brother's gaze.

 

Mycroft steps towards the offending object, bending down to further examine the extent of the damage. Upon closer inspection, he finds a tiny, but unmistakably obvious, stain on the centre of the seat cushion. Without a word, Mycroft slips his hand into his coat pocket, drags out his mobile, and dials his PA for assistance.

 

“Sherlock. That won't be necessary. It just needs a bit of... sprucing up. Hello? Yes,” Mycroft starts as he steps out of the room to relay the situation to her.

 

Sherlock continues gracefully dragging the bow along the violin strings, gradually increasing in volume as he tries to drown out the sound of his brother's voice still heard in the hallway.

 

He barely gives his brother the courtesy of a look when he reenters the room. Mycroft's phone has returned to the inside of his coat pocket.

 

“It's settled, then. There will be some gentlemen arriving in…” Mycroft glances at his watch, “about an hour to pick up the chair from your flat. They will give it a thorough cleaning and return it as good as new when they're finished. All right?”

 

“Don't care. Do what you like with it when it's finished. I don't want it anymore. Not as if I'm going to need it ever again,” Sherlock snaps as he nimbly rises out of his chair and turns away from Mycroft, still playing his violin.

 

Mycroft sighs in defeat before he addressing his brother. “I'll keep in storage for you, just in case you... Well, anyway...”

 

“Fine. Bye.”

 

“Right, then. Do keep in touch, Sherlock,” Mycroft huffs.

 

With a dismissive wave from Sherlock, Mycroft heads down the stairway and into the night.

 

Sherlock glares down from the window, watching his brother climb into the familiar black car before it merges into busy London traffic with effortless ease. He carefully places his violin onto the desk next to the window and slinks back into his chair as he sits in stock still silence waiting for the moving men to arrive.

 

***

 

John glances around the flat in confusion, and then points to the blank space in the sitting area.

 

“Hey, what happened to my chair?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to anyone I had sent some version of this story to in its early development. I could not have completed it without your invaluable advice and insight. I hope all of you enjoy the finished result.


End file.
